standing, the same humorous spectacle, reason seeking to confute a human sentiment! The real fear of death, as distinguished from the sorrow of bereavement, is not to any large extent the dread of physical dissolution. Those who know most of death scenes on the sick bed or in battle testify to the fortitude and even the indifference with which the approaching end is nearly always met. With dissolving strength of body comes a loss of feeling, and when death comes in the just order of nature as the close of a full life it is rather welcomed than shunned. It is the loss of continuous personality which is the true source of dread. How strangely the sophism of Epicurus sounds to the keenly-feeling European of to-day! "That which is not felt is nothing to us"! Yes, but the shadow of this negation falling before him strikes chill upon the spirit of the yet warm-feeling man, the abhorrence from this passage to a state of not feeling. It is for this that Western religions have striven to feed with convincing images a belief in personal immortality, and it is the fading of these images, among so many who have lost confidence in the traditional religions, that is a secret cause of so much sor row and anguish among men and women of all classes. For it is not merely the "intellectuals" who have undergone this loss of confidence in personal immortality; a certain sceptical spirit of the age, not clearly rational in form, has busily sapped the faith of the common people. It is less the rejection of a creed than the fading of a vision. The future life is becoming unsubstantial, unreal, for the modern man. There is, we think, a wide recognition of the fact among the leaders of thought to-day, and divines are beginning to recast their theology, philosophers to repair their cosmic teaching, scientists to make new contributions to alleviate the heart-ache which proceeds from a weakening belief in personal immortality. To find satisfactions for keen desires is the actual work to which all the intellectual and spiritual processes set themselves, and so long as the passion for personal immortality survives, religion, philosophy, science, and art will find it food. The juggling of spiritualism, the more pretentious refinements of psychical research, the speculative physics of Dr. Lodge, the personalism and pragmatism of the school of philosophy which Professor James so brilliantly represents, not to speak of the New Theology, are all largely motived, consciously or sub-consciously, by this pain of frustrated personality in modern man. It is the sentimental demand for personal continuity beyond the dissolution of the body that gives the leading interest to these speculative studies. The latest accession is the consolation of biology. "The Philosophy of Long Life," by M. Finot (John Lane) is an endeavor by a learned Frenchman to furnish what he terms a new hope of immortality by expounding the doctrine of the animate solidarity of the universe, as attested by a gathering volume of evidence from several sciences. It seeks, first, following the researches of Professor Mechnikoff and other biologists, to show what science can do to substitute a natural for an unnatural death. If every one was sufficiently well born and bred, and worked and lived under such favorable conditions as to live out in vigor his full term of human life, death would have lost its sting; for the gradually waning life, death would become a desired haven of repose, and even the sorrow of friends would be assuaged by the sense of completeness which attended such a passing. It is, indeed, a just pride of science that the joint efforts of modern therapeutics, hygiene, and sanitation have, by the large reduction of infantile mortality and the successful defence of adult life against diseases which carried off so many of our ancestors in the prime of life, not merely lengthened the average duration of life, but sensibly lightened the burden of anguish felt for those prematurely snatched from us. Here, indeed, is one of the most unquestionable gains of modern civilization. This is a right "return to Nature," to make death no more than the dropping off of a fully-ripened life. Secure for everyone his full right of life, then surely it would come to pass that "No one should consider death or think of it as worse than going from one room to another." But when Science passes from this legitimate consolation to reconstitute upon a basis of universal animation a doctrine of bodily immortality which shall replace that personal survival which most men crave for themselves, and almost all for those who on this earth are dear to them, a curious crassness of feeling seems to cloud her vision. M. Finot gathers, indeed, from a variety of modern scientific sources a most stimulating array of witnesses, physical, chemical, botanical, and biological, to establish the conception of a unity of Nature suffused throughout by a single spirit of life, organic, animate, conscious, even purposive, with differences only of degree and of complexity. The behavior of crystals, the creative unions of chemical elements, the cellular theory of metals, the laboratory imitations of animal chemistry, the researches of Messrs. Loeb and others on the borderland between the animate and the supposed inanimate, the experiments in the comparative conduct of metals, vegetable and animal fibre under the same stimuli, though not yet enabling us to bridge experimentally the gulf between "dead" and "living" matter, certainly go far towards sustaining the spiritual monism or universal continuity towards which sheer logic has inclined most philosophers. The confident assertion of Seneca, "Exigua pars est vitae quam nos vivimus," is certainly in process of ever clearer corroboration. The old rigid barriers between the inorganic and the organic, the insensate and the sensitive, the unconscious and the conscious, can no longer be maintained. But to convert this interesting speculation of the unity of cosmic life into a gospel of personal consolation for those called upon to face death for themselves, or for those dear to them, surely betrays a strange obtuseness to the emotional verities. "The intimate ties which unite the exterior world, men, plants, animals, inert and organic matter, are shown most plainly in the phenomena of the life which is common to all. Our return to the earth is thus only a return to the universal life, to the supreme energy which binds up all things in an indissoluble chain. Beyond this life, beyond its incongruous appearances, immortality engulfs, reforms, and rejuvenates in its breast, vast as the universe, all the partial eclipses of life. All things return there, and with indefatigable power are reborn into the sunlight." Nothing perishes. With the dissolution of the body is the accompanying dissolution of the soul passing into many smaller souls or into new psychic combinations as real, as purposeful, as valuable, in the continuous career of Nature, as that for which they are released by the death and decay of the human frame. Whether this doctrine be true or not, it is not new, but a curious interest attaches to the eager confidence of the author that the acceptance of this cosmic immortality will satisfy the craving for personal survival after death, and will satisfactorily replace the consolations of outworn religious creeds. Is it, indeed, possible that the scientific attitude towards life will in time produce such a re-orientation of the emo numerous descendants which await him in the tomb." Considering that the whole course of civilization, at any rate in the Western world, has gone to strengthen the conception of individual personality, and to intensify its emotional value, no theory of death, biological or other, which fails to make provision for continuity of this central personality, at any rate in its psychical character, seems likely to afford any real consolation to man in his deepest sorrow. The notion of man ever attaining such a "centre of indifference" that in the literal sense "all is one to him," and the spirits of the human beings who have lived in the closest circle of his interests and affections are equally valued by him when conceived as animating millions of little, scattered, unknown forms, is surely the wildest imagination to which the mind of man has ever committed itself. tions that men will lose all the special joys, and the travelling company of his value they attribute now to the unique phenomenon of personality, content to merge the sense of self into that belonging to the cosmos, or to any fragment of it, with complete complacency? For the biologist to see in death "only a new form of life" is reasonable enough, for that is what it is from the standpoint of his study. But for him to suppose that this fragmentary resurrection can satisfy the passionate affections which gather round a loved personality of a parent, a child, a friend, is surely an amazing testimony to the sterilizing influence of science when detached from life. Among the many modes of sentimentalism that have arisen in modern times, the scientific sentimentalism of such a passage as the following deserves interested recognition: "And the dying man, while commending his soul to Heaven, I will salute with one of his last smiles the mysterious properties, the unknown The Nation, A WEEK-END IN THE COUNTRY. "Why not come down" (wrote George), "and spend a week-end with us? We're all alone. The country is looking lovely just now, and it will do you all the good in the world. Fresh air and exercise are what you Londoners want. There is a good train at 2.30." "The very thing," I said to myself, and I wired, "Coming by the two-thirty." At two-thirty four I wired again, "Coming by the five-nine." How it was I missed the 5.9, I cannot explain, but it was not until half-past ten that I arrived at last. "Not at all," said George in reply to my apologies. "Afraid you didn't see much of the country coming up from the station, though. Never mind; you're staying till Tuesday, aren't you? That's good. Breakfast at ten." It was a glorious morning when I woke for the first time at four. At six and at eight it was still delightful, and I congratulated myself on my escape from London. However, I only just managed to get down to breakfast by ten. George turned up twenty minutes later. "Glorious day, isn't it?" he said. "We must have a good walk. Hallo, here's Muriel. You know my sister, don't you?" "Good morning," said Muriel. "Isn't it a glorious day? Polly down yet, George?" "She's having breakfast upstairs. She's going to church, though." "Yes, I'm going with her." After breakfast we went into the li- suppose?" brary. I began to fill a pipe. "That's rather a jolly book," said George, picking one off the table. "You might have a look at it some time." "I've heard about it," I said, looking at the title, "I know it's good"; and I began to dip into it. "What a perfect day," said George at the window, yawning and stretching himself; "I must just write a letter, though." I turned back to the first page. It was really a very jolly book. ... "Hallo," said George, "they're back from church. We shall have to do our walk this afternoon, old man. How's the book?" "Heavens," I cried, "it's one o'clock. I had no idea." "Well, come and have some lunch. What a wonderful day! About this afternoon would you like to go up through the woods, or shall we get down to the sea?" "By Jove, yes; you Londoners want exercise. I'll tell you what. We'll go out in the car and take lunch with us, and then the ladies can drive back, and you and I will walk. How's that?" "Ripping," I said. Monday was another glorious day, from four o'clock onwards. I was down all right at ten, and so was George's sister. "What are you men thinking of doing to-day?" she asked, when I had got going on the fish. "George said something about all going out in the car." "That will be jolly. It's very pretty round here, isn't it?" "I haven't seen it yet," I said. "I've hardly been outside the house." "George must take you round before we start." When this was repeated to George half-an-hour later he was enthusiastic. "Don't mind a bit," I said cheerfully, "Come on," he said, as soon as he had and went to lunch. . . . "What do you generally do on a Sunday after lunch?" said George as we lit our cigars. finished his breakfast; and I followed him out. "This," he said, as we stepped from the library on to the lawn, "is where we generally play croquet. A jolly game, I always think." "Oh, rather." "Do you play much? Well, then, don't you agree with me that it's a mistake for the man who goes first not to have a shot at the hoop?" "It's rather risky," I began, “because" "Well, now, I don't think so. I'd back myself to do it any time. Look here, we might just have a game and then I'd show you what I mean. Would you like to?" "Rather; I'm always ready for croquet." . . . "We must have another," said George, an hour and a-half later. "You didn't get any of the luck." ... "And a conqueror," he added half an hour afterwards. "The balls just went right for you that time." "What a perfect day," said Mrs. George at lunch. "How's the croquet?" I've "We're just playing the conqueror," said George. "Jove, it's hot. never known such a day." We finished the third game (which George won), and came in for a drink. "It's all eye," said George. "Same as at billiards. If you can smack 'em at one you can smack 'em at the other." "Well, I can't smack 'em at billiards," I sighed. "Nonsense! Really? I wonder what I could give you? Do you care for a game? Come on, then." Punch. Muriel came into the billiard-room about four. "Billiards-on a day like this!" she exclaimed. "It's clouding over a bit now," said George, as he chalked his cue . . . "That takes me out, I think." "Why don't you play a sociable game for four?" said Muriel. "Bridge?" said George. "Well, get Polly then. And we'll have tea in here." "Do you play Bridge much?" Muriel asked me. "I love it," I said truthfully. "So do I," she said, and she went off for Polly .. At about seven o'clock, "No trumps," said George. "Ah, I thought so," he added. "It's begun to rain." We all looked out of the window. "What a pity!" we all said. "Spoilt your week-end rather," said George. "Oh, no, I've had a perfectly ripping time," I protested. "Still if it had kept fine You know, in the country one does want "Must you go early to-morrow?" said Muriel. "I'm afraid so." "Well, you must come again, that's all," said Mrs. George kindly. "And come when it's fine," said George, "and get a little country air and exercise. Do you all the good in the world." A. A. M. THE ARMED PEACE IN EUROPE. The meeting of the Tsar and the Kaiser off Björkö seems by common consent unlikely to make any change in the political situation in Europe. The attack on the Woodburn might, indeed, cause serious trouble with Great Britain but for the Anglo-Russian under LIVING AGE. VOL. XLIV. 2300 standing, coupled with our experience of Russian nervousness on the Doggerbank in 1904. Putting aside this de plorable incident, it is hard to see that the meeting can have much immediate significance. No doubt both Sovereigns were attended by an imposing |